Eggs in a Basket
by mandassina
Summary: Amanda has taken a job as a museum curator and she needs a favor to make a good impression at work. Cursing himself for a fool, Methos agrees. After all, it could be advantageous to have a master thief in his debt. Of course, Amanda takes advantage.
1. The Call of Duty

Disclaimer: I own no part of the Highlander Franchise. No profit is being made from this story, but these two are too cute together to not write it.

Author's Note: Blame this on RoadrunnerGER. In an online conversation, someone said something about Methos and plot bunnies, and the next thing I knew, the first five chapters just sort of exploded into my brain. The story is complete and I will be posting every couple of days until Easter.

_**()()()**_

_**Eggs in a Basket**_

_**Chapter One  
><strong>__**Call of Duty**_

"Absolutely, positively not!" Methos said definitively.

"But if you . . ."

"No way!"

"But I . . . "

"Never."

"Will you stop interrupting and at least let me explain?" Amanda pleaded, stamping her foot in frustration.

Rolling his eyes, Methos said, "It won't do you any good. The answer will still be no."

"But you'll listen?"

Methos sighed. "I'll listen."

"Ok, so, the assistant children's curator is usually the one who does all the costume stuff," she began. "But last week he came down with chicken pox, had a hundred-and-four degree fever, and wound up in the hospital because he didn't look after himself. I really, really wanted to make a good impression at work, so I said I could find someone to do it."

"Then ask Macleod," Methos said, and turned to the fridge to get himself a beer.

"I did ask him, first," Amanda said, leaning against the refrigerator door so he wasn't able to open it. "He couldn't."

"Why not? Because he's not an easy mark?"

"No, because the suit is too small."

Methos wasn't sure if he should be offended by that or not. Knowing how broad-chested the Highlander was, he chose, for the moment, not to be.

He and Mac had both been suspicious when Amanda, of all people, got herself a job as a junior curator specializing in jewellry for a local museum. It was like giving an alcoholic the keys to the liquor cabinet, but Amanda insisted that being surrounded by beautiful things that she was allowed to handle and study every day could be just what she needed to go straight. So they agreed to be supportive.

"Pleeeease, Methos," Amanda begged batting her eyes. "All you have to do is show up, sit for a few pictures, and then go home. It will only take a couple of hours. I'll even drive you. The suit is already rented, and I don't know anyone else I can ask."

"Then do it yourself."

"I can't," she said dramatically. "I have to run the tours."

"Of course you do," he replied dryly.

_Listening,_ Methos thought, _is being supportive, but this would be above and beyond the call of duty._

"_If_ I do this . . . "

Amanda clapped her hands and bounced excitedly.

"I said _if_," he reminded her sternly. "We still don't know if that thing will fit me yet."

"I'm sure it will," she interjected.

"I'll just bet you are," he replied, knowing he would live to regret this day. "_If_ I do this, what do I get in return?"

"What do you want?" Amanda asked.

Deciding to turn the tables, he leered and told her, "As far as I know, my dear Amanda, you have only one thing I want."

"I . . . uh . . . Methos!" she hissed, sounding as if she wasn't sure whether he meant her Quickening or her sex.

"Let's just say, you owe me," he decided abruptly. He surely didn't want to take her Quickening, and he wouldn't have turned down the sex, but he didn't want to put her in the position of having to reject him if she really couldn't find him appealing. They were friends, first and foremost, and he didn't want things to be awkward. Besides, having an expert thief indebted to him could come in handy at some point.

She threw her arms around him, kissed his cheek and danced in place chanting, "Thank you, thank you, thank you," like a little girl who had just gotten The Best Present Ever for her birthday.

And Methos knew he had just been had.

TBC

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	2. Things, Amanda

**Author's Note:** Wildelf72, I hope this is visual enough for you!

_**()()()**_

_**Eggs in a Basket**_

_**Chapter Two  
><strong>__**Things, Amanda**_

"I cannot _believe_ I let you talk me into this," Methos moaned as he followed Amanda through the museum to the children's section.

"Yeah, well, you agreed to do it, so quit your whining," Amanda said brusquely.

"Oh, I agreed to do it, yes, Madame, I surely did, but _not_ without complaining," Methos pointed out. "And since I am doing it _for you_, so that _you_ can make a good impression on _your_ bosses, it is _you_ who will listen to _me_ complain!"

Stopping short, Amanda turned to face him, arms folded and lips pursed in irritation. "All right, get it over with," she commanded. "Tell me how miserable you are."

The blue velveteen Easter rabbit's maniacally friendly grin and the floppy left ear contrasted sharply with his tense and rigid posture as he stood, one oversized white-gloved hand on his hip, the other pointing angrily at Amanda as he listed his grievances.

"First of all, this thing is bloody _hot_," Methos griped. "And too many people have sweated in it before me. It reeks of old gym socks and cheap cologne."

"Yeah, well, I did have the courtesy to pay to have it professionally cleaned for you," Amanda said. "Imagine what it would have been like if I hadn't done that."

"Don't expect me to be grateful," Methos snapped. "It still stinks."

"Ok, so it's hot and smelly," she said indifferently. "So is the dojo, but you seem to like that well enough when Duncan's around."

"I _what_?"

"Oh, don't act so surprised," Amanda brushed it off. "Joe's noticed it, too."

Inside the costume, Methos blushed. He'd tried being subtle, but Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod, that beautiful, stupid, Highland bastard was about as perceptive as a rock. For the love of Christ, Macleod had come home to find Methos sprawled across his bed like a bloody offering one night and he hadn't batted and eye.

Glancing back at Amanda, he saw her smirking and snapped, "_Don't_ change the subject!"

She quickly put on a straight face, but the corners of her lips kept quirking with amusement, which only made him angrier.

"There is no place for my sword," he whinged.

"You're not likely to need it in a museum, particularly the _children's_ wing, and I'll protect you if you do," she promised.

"It itches in places where I can't scratch."

"I'll bring you some baby powder to ease the chafing."

"I'm shedding on my own vest."

Amanda inspected him closely. There was a bit of pale blue fuzz on the rabbit's navy blue quilted velvet vest. She wordlessly took a tiny lint roller out of her purse and rolled it over him.

"Bow ties are not cool," he said snobbishly.

"It's glued to your head, what do you want me to do about it? Take it off?"

"Don't even joke about that."

"Sorry."

"You should be," he snapped, but honestly, the banter was putting him in a slightly better mood. "The eyes are in the wrong place so I can barely see where I'm going, these ridiculous feet make it almost impossible to walk, and spats. Without shoes. Really? Need I say more?"

"Rabbits hop, they don't walk; once we get you safely installed in the carriage, all you have to do is sit there, hold children, and pose for the camera; and spats, really, you don't need to say any more, but I am sure you will," she said. "It'll be fine."

"Except that . . . "

He trailed off, which made Amanda genuinely concerned. As much as Methos liked to complain about nothing just to annoy other people, when something really bothered him, he was just like Macleod in that he clammed up and tried to tough it out himself.

"Except what?"

"It's nothing."

"Tell me."

"Really, it's not important," he said. "It's just that . . .

"Yes?"

"Well . . . "

"_Tell_ me!"

"There's something in the tail that . . . um, whenever I sit, it . . . er . . . does things."

"Things?" Amanda parroted.

The rabbit hung his head and said darkly, "_Things, _Amanda."

"Things," she repeated, frowning. Then her eyebrows shot up. Her mouth twitched and she tried to school her features back into a serious expression. She hiccoughed softly, and her face convulsed. Finally she just surrendered and slid down against the wall laughing.

The rabbit stood there impatiently tapping one enormous, spatted foot, waiting for her to regain control of herself.

"I'm sorry," she said, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, "but once I realized what you meant, all I could think was, with the right person, that could be really _fun_!"

She began to laugh again, but even under the grinning rabbit costume she could tell that Methos was seething, so she quickly calmed herself. Taking a quick look around, she grabbed him by one oversized white glove and led him into the ladies' room. The museum hadn't opened yet, so there was little chance of them interrupting anyone. Still, she called out, and only when she got no answer did she turn Methos around and unzip him. While he got out of the suit and pulled the foam head off in relief, she found the custodian's placard that said, "Closed for cleaning, will reopen in 30 minutes," and put it outside the door.

Coming back to him, she gave him an appraising look and said, "You know, even through the jeans, I always knew you had a spectacular bum, and I love the tighty-whiteies, but I never realized what a truly amazing body you have."

"Oh, shut up!" he snapped.

"No, really, Methos, you are . . . really, very sexy," Amanda told him with as much sincerity as he had ever heard from her. "You should show it off more."

As he felt the heat of a blush fill his cheeks, he suddenly found himself wishing for that ridiculously grinning rabbit head. Trying to sound cool, he said, "When you have lived as long as I have, you learn to keep your best assets hidden. I'm easy to underestimate, and that has kept me alive more than once."

Amanda knew immediately what he was talking about, but she didn't want to think about the brutal Game that might one day pit them against each other. So she turned his words around on him and said, "If you really want to keep your best _ass_ets hidden, you should wear looser jeans."

Methos scowled, but when she gave him an impish look all he could do was snort with laughter and shake his head. As he watched, she pulled a small, folding, multi-purpose tool from a hidden pocket in her skirt, made a tiny cut near the tail on an interior seam of his costume, and with a couple minutes of careful manipulation, worked a rigid piece of plastic out of the fluffy mass of faux fur that was meant to bounce on his bum.

"Try it on now," she ordered.

He obeyed, and once he was dressed again, he hopped up to sit on the counter beside the sinks.

"Feels much better," he said. Sliding down from where he was sitting, he turned and looked at himself in the mirror, bounced on the balls of his feet a couple of times, and lamented, "but now I have a floppy tail."

"Oh, for goodness sake! You really aren't happy unless you're complaining, are you?" she marveled. "You will be sitting for the next eight hours, with children in your lap. I have done my best to help you. Now what'll it be? A floppy tail that no one will see, or . . . _things_?"

Blushing again, Methos grabbed the grinning rabbit's head, plonked it on, and said brusquely, "I'm good. Thank you." Leading the way out of the bathroom, he stopped short with his hand on the door and gasped, "Eight hours? _Amanda_!"

"Didn't I tell you?"

"You are so lucky I don't have my sword right now."

TBC

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	3. Meeting Mrs Rabbit

_**()()()**_

_**Eggs in a Basket**_

_**Chapter Three  
><strong>__**Meeting Mrs. Rabbit**_

As Amanda led him into the children's room, Methos spotted a poster advertising _The Largest Gathering of Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs Since the Bolshevik Revolution Featuring the Unveiling of the Recently Rediscovered Mauve Egg of 1897, _and somehow, he knew his day was not going to end well.

Slowing down to indicate the sign, he asked, "Amanda, what are you up to?"

"What do you mean?" Amanda asked with that little tremor in her voice that usually meant she was up to something that would involve running from the police.

Methos waved toward the sign again, and Amanda turned a cross look on him. "What, you think since I'm a reformed thief that I'm liable to steal something when the museum is having a special event?"

"Not pulling a job in six months does not make you a reformed thief," Methos told her. "With your history, you'll have to go a lot longer than that before you qualify as reformed."

Moving close, Amanda whispered, "For your information, the museum hosts events like this _all the time_, and I haven't stolen a thing. You only know about this one because I needed your help, and it really hurts to have you doubt me, Methos."

"Look, Amanda, I adore you and wouldn't have you any other way than how you wish to be," he said. "All I'm asking is that you don't drag me into the middle of a police investigation."

True to form, Amanda was easily distracted when it suited her to change the subject. "You adore me?"

"Sure I do," Methos assured her. "Hell, I'd worship you if given half a chance."

Amanda peered at him as if she could discern the truth through the eyes of the bunny suit, then laughed, shook her head, and said, "You are such a liar."

At least inside the costume, he didn't have to hide his disappointment.

Dragging Methos across the children's room to the purple and yellow egg-shaped coach, Amanda knocked on the door and called, "Molly, are you decent?"

"Yeah! Come on in!"

Amanda held the door for Methos and helped him into the claustrophobic quarters where he would spend the next _eight hours_ being photographed with children. Molly was already in costume, and a very fetching pink Mrs. Rabbit costume it was. From her voice, she had sounded young, and Methos couldn't help but wonder what she looked like.

"Molly, this is Mmmmmy friend, Adam," Amanda just managed to stop herself from using Methos's real name. "Adam, this is Molly. She's done this before, so just follow her lead. You have about ten minutes before the doors open. Molly, why don't you give him some pointers?"

The pink Mrs. Rabbit head nodded.

"Great. I have to get to work now," Amanda said. Squeezing Methos's arm and smiling warmly, she said, "Thank you so much. Even if you don't believe in me, it means a lot that you would help."

Despite the fact that Methos knew he had every right to be suspicious, Amanda still managed to make him feel guilty for doubting her motives. Fortunately, Molly was discrete and respected his privacy. Instead of asking about Amanda, she turned to him and removed the rabbit head to reveal a fresh young face with a pleasant smile and brown hair pulled up in a bun, dark brown eyes and a scattering of freckles across her nose. She wore a pink cotton headband that perfectly complemented the suit, and Methos wondered why she would bother when no one would see it.

"Molly Green," she said, extending her hand. "Like the color."

Pulling off his costume head, Methos introduced himself. "Adam Pierson, pleased to meet you." He shook her hand.

"So, according to Amanda, you've never done this kind of thing before?"

"That's right," Methos nodded.

"Well, don't worry, it's a tough gig, but it's not exactly Shakespeare," she said. "Since you can't talk and the mask has only one expression, body language has to say it all. When you wave . . . " She held up her hand and shook it from her wrist. " . . . wave big." She moved her whole arm from the elbow. "If something's good . . . " She made a circle with her thumb and forefinger with the other three digits sticking straight out. " . . . it's _really_ good." She extended her arm full length in a dramatic gesture.

Methos copied her actions, and she smiled prettily. "Perfect."

Pulling a glove off with her teeth, she turned around and rummaged in a bag behind Mrs. Rabbit's throne. Turning back to Methos, she handed him a yellow headband and a bottle of Gatorade.

"You'll need these," she said.

"Uh, thanks for the drink. I'll save it for later," Methos said, knowing his confusion was apparent in his voice. "And, um, I don't do hair accessories."

Molly rolled her eyes. "God, you really are a novice. In that suit you are going to sweat. The 'hair accessory', as you so disdainfully call it, will keep the perspiration out of your eyes. The sports drink will replace your electrolytes."

"Ah," Methos said, feeling foolish. "Thank you. Sorry you got stuck with a newbie like me today."

Molly smiled. "It's all right. Just pay attention and you will learn quickly."

Methos nodded and smiled. "Any more pointers?"

"Oh, yeah," Molly said. "Never shut the door while there is a child in here. The kid will freak and start to cry, which pisses off Carl, the photographer, because it makes for a bad picture. Also, in today's society, it's just asking for a lawsuit over some false abuse or molestation charges."

As if speaking his name had summoned the devil, a tall, dour man with squinting eyes and a beakish nose opened the door without knocking and said, "Five minutes! And remember, you two get paid just for showing up; if I don't sell some portraits, I only cover expenses.

"I'll be spending the day behind the camera in a room a little smaller than a public toilet stall. So, if you need anything, get it yourself," Carl grumbled. "Some college boy must have thought these pictures would be more candid if the kids didn't know they were being photographed, but he never considered that parents don't buy portraits of kids looking away from the camera."

He squeezed into the small room and pointed out a camera lens disguised as one of the spots on a giant polka-dotted egg. "Just keep the brats looking at that and we'll all have a good day."

"You know, Carl, I'll bet you'd do a better business if you dropped the grouchy attitude," Molly told him. "I doubt many parents like to buy portraits of crying kids, either."

"Yeah, well, keeping them happy isn't my job today," Carl snapped and slammed the door behind him as he stepped out.

Methos blanched. It was starting to sound like Amanda had gotten him into a hell of a lot of trouble without making any more herself.

"That man is a children's photographer?" he asked in surprise.

"I've worked with Carl before," Molly said. "He wanted to be the next Ansel Adams, but he didn't have the artistic eye for landscape photography."

"At least he'd have had more fun trying to be the next Robert Mapplethorpe," Methos quipped.

"And that would be _really _disturbing for a children's photographer," she replied.

Methos considered the vast body of homoerotic work published by the famed photographer, and nodded. "Point taken."

"Sooo," Molly continued, "watch out for sticky fingers, especially chocolaty ones, and as tempting as it may be, never, ever, bounce the babies. Last year one puked all over me, and it cost me half my day's wages to have the suit cleaned, so this year, I'm getting paid a little less, but the museum is renting the suit and cleaning it."

"Wages?" Methos echoed, finally registering what Carl had said earlier. "Paid? You're getting paid?"

"You're not?" Molly was as shocked as he was.

"I'll kill her!" Methos growled as Molly started to chuckle. "If it's the last thing I do, I'll have her head for this."

Trying her best to keep from laughing, Molly said, "If it's any consolation, I think she blew her budget on souvenirs. With the Fabergé collection and the unveiling of the Mauve Egg, I think she wanted it to be really special." Picking up a basket of purplish-pink plastic eggs, she said, "She told me she called in a favour from a friend who owns a plastics company to have these custom made, but even so, it must have cost her a pretty penny."

The eggs were good, but obvious, replicas of the precious trinket pictured on the poster Methos had seen on his way in, but somehow, he knew there was more to them than met the eye.

"I'll kill her," he seethed yet again. "I really will."

Molly chuckled. "You're a great friend to do this for nothing, Adam," she said, rubbing his arm. "Don't let Amanda take you for granted."

"I . . . uh . . ." Methos stammered, suddenly flummoxed. He'd done too many terrible things in his long life to ever be comfortable with anyone praising his character. Before he'd met MacLeod, it seldom happened because he was a self-absorbed prat. Since the Highlander had forced him to grow a conscience, and then Joe, Richie, and Amanda had befriended him, it had happened more often, and it still made him feel like a fraud every time.

This time, he was saved from having to offer a response by Carl, the photographer, knocking on the door to the coach and telling them, "It's showtime!"

TBC

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	4. Up to No Good

_**Eggs in a Basket**_

**_Chapter Four  
><em>_Up to No Good_**

Mr. and Mrs. Rabbit's first visitor was a cherubic-looking toddler with golden curls, blue eyes, and matching dimples in her cheeks and her chubby little knees. She wore a carnation pink, puffy satin dress with white lace at the collar, sleeves, and hem; matching pink tights dotted with tiny yellow, fuchsia, and green striped Easter eggs; white Mary Janes; and white knickers with row upon row of pink-edged ruffles. She squealed in delight the moment she set eyes on Mr. Rabbit, and clambered into his lap before he even had the chance to lift her up.

She carried a lollipop the size of her head in one hand and a stuffed toy monkey decorated with so many shades of filth that it was impossible to tell what the original shade had been in the other. She looked a bit perplexed when she thrust the sticky lolly at Mr. Rabbit and he shied away, but when he carefully took hold of the stick and pretended to lick it, she chortled happily. When he tried to transfer her to his other knee so she could be between him and Molly for the picture, she tensed up and yelled. So he soothed her by rubbing her back and sat there for a couple of minutes with her babbling at him expressively in a language so ancient, even he could not translate it. Mr. Rabbit smiled, because that was his only expression, and nodded, just to be polite, and eventually, she got so involved in her baby story that she did not notice when he moved her to his other knee.

What kind of parent fed a two year old a lollipop that large at ten in the morning, Methos didn't know, but the little girl had a pleasant enough disposition that he felt oddly please that she seemed to prefer him to Molly, right up until she said, "Buh, buh, buh, BITE!" and did, dangerously close to his nipple and hard enough to bruise. He didn't know which made him angrier, the fact that Mum had to have known the child was a biter and didn't inform them, that she must have recognized the, "Buh, buh, buh," as a warning and chose not to intervene; or that the bitch had the nerve to laugh and excuse the behaviour as teething despite the child having a full set of teeth instead of apologizing and having a stern word with her daughter when he gave her back.

"Are you all right?" Molly asked with concern as he ducked back into the carriage.

"I think my fur got the worst of it," he told her, rubbing his chest as he felt the Quickening already healing it. "I'm really quite proud of myself for not dropping her or cursing aloud."

"Well, I'm proud of you, too, and even prouder that you didn't mention it to the mother," Molly said. "People like that think their children can do no wrong, and she would have lodged a complaint against you if you had said anything. In another two years, that sweet little angel with be an obnoxious, spoiled brat."

"It's a pity," Methos said, and that was all he had a chance to say as a dishevelled boy of about six years old bounded into the coach. His hair stuck out at odd angles, his glasses were on crooked, one of the front tails of his shirt was untucked, his left shoe was untied and he clutched an action figure in each hand. For some reason, the boy reminded Methos of himself when he first woke up in the morning, and as the child rambled on about people with names like Hulk and Macho Man and Jake the Snake while making the figures do arguably obscene things to each other, he wondered if six years old was too young to be labelled a nerd and whether he had been just as weird as a child five thousand years ago or if this was some condition peculiar to the twentieth century.

Their business seemed to come in fits and starts. There would be a line of five or six children waiting, they would spend about three to eight minutes with each child, and then there would be no one for the next ten minutes or so. Very quickly, Methos developed a set of mental categories into which he tried to sort the children as he saw them waiting in line. There were criers, whiners, shy ones, bold ones, oddballs, and budding sociopaths. The little cherub who bit him was, sadly, a budding sociopath unless her mother started to discipline her soon, and the boy with the action figures had been an oddball with a touch of boldness because he wasn't the least bit shy about talking to them.

Molly proved to be a good teacher and she really had a way with the children, which made Methos's morning go well and proved more useful than he expected since his five thousand years of manoeuvring and manipulating people seemed to count for very little when those people were under the age of eight and no matter what category he filed them in, they never behaved quite as he expected. She also had an uncanny ability to read him and know when the whinging, crying carpet crawlers were getting on his nerves, and she infallibly put out the _on break, back in 10_ sign whenever he was about to explode. She insisted it was just that her acting background made her especially attuned to body language, but he maintained that it had more to do with her being a sweet, compassionate person.

On their breaks, they took time to get to know each other. Methos learned that she had inherited a tidy sum of money from a rich uncle who had no children of his own and no other nieces or nephews. It wasn't enough to make her independently wealthy, but with scrupulous attention to a tight budget, it would allow her to pursue her dream of making a living as an actress for another decade or so. In the meantime, she was also getting a degree in early childhood education.

"Because I'd like to have something more than my butt to fall back on," she joked.

"Well, I have known several artistic types," Methos said, "and I must say, you are by far the most sensible I have met."

Molly frowned and said, "Thank you, I think."

"Oh, that was most definitely a compliment," he assured her. "I like sensible women."

"Why Mr. Pierson, are you flirting with me?"

"I do believe I am," Methos replied, and they clunked their bottles of sports drink together in a toast.

They had the chance to get out of their suits for an hour for lunch, but Methos couldn't because in addition to forgetting to tell him that the Easter Bunny's visit to the museum was an all-day affair, Amanda had also neglected to tell him he would have a lunch break. Molly was kind enough to bring him a tray, and Amanda joined them in the coach when she couldn't find them in the staff cafeteria. She was surprised to find how quickly they had established a sense of camaraderie and felt a little put out that Methos was so friendly with Molly already.

"Oh, by the way, Amanda, did you know there was a budget to hire an actor to wear this ridiculous costume?" Methos asked her. Tossing her one of the Mauve Egg keepsake replicas he said, "It seems some idiot squandered it all on these cheap plastic souvenirs."

"They are not cheap," Amanda informed him through clenched teeth.

"All right then, some idiot squandered it all on these overpriced plastic souvenirs," he teased. "It's just a matter of semantics, and if you want to argue about that, I assure you I will win. I am a linguist, after all. Anyway, I'm not angry about it."

"Really? You're not angry?" Amanda clearly did not believe him.

"No, I'm not," Methos reassured her. "I mean, it was my choice, and I did say no four times before I said yes. I'm glad I could help you."

"Really?" she was pleasantly surprised now. "That's so sweet!"

"Just remember, now, you owe me twice."

"I what?"

"Amanda, darling, when I agreed to do this for you, I thought your other _volunteer _had taken ill," he reminded her of the lie she had told him. "Now, I have found out that you lied not only about him being sick, but also about him being a volunteer. You never had anyone else to do this because you blew your budget on plastic eggs. So, if you want me to finish out the afternoon instead of walking out of here now, you owe me twice."

Amanda bobbed her head and rolled her eyes. "All right. Whateverrrr."

"No, not whatever, dear heart. I want to hear you say it," Methos insisted patiently. "I want you to tell me you owe me twice."

Amanda looked at him mulishly.

"I signed no agreement," Methos reminded her. "I am under no obligation to stay."

"All right, I owe you twice!" she snapped. "Happy now?"

"Elated," Methos replied dryly.

Looking to Molly, Amanda asked, "How could you betray me like this?"

Molly raised her hands in surrender. "Hey, I didn't betray anybody," she objected. "I was just complaining that the museum made me pay to have my own suit cleaned last year, so I had it written into my contract that they would take care of it this time. You just better be careful about taking advantage of your boyfriend like this, or someone is likely to steal him away from you."

"Boyfriend?" Amanda echoed in shock.

"Her _what_?" Methos yelped.

"You mean you two aren't together?"

"Heavens, no," Methos replied.

"You've _got_ to be kidding," Amanda muttered.

"I mean, being single, I wouldn't kick her out of my bed, but . . ." Methos mumbled.

"Oh, thanks a lot!" Amanda snapped, giving him a swat in the chest. "You wouldn't have to! I wouldn't be caught dead there."

"Hey, no need to get nasty! It's a better compliment than you have ever paid me!" Methos snapped back, rubbing the spot where she'd hit him because it stung.

"You two are sooooo together," Molly chuckled, "and you don't even know it, yet." Getting up from the table, she added. "And now that the domestics have started, that's my cue to get out of here. I'll be back in ten, Adam."

Methos gave the young woman a smile and a wave. Amanda favoured her with a scowl.

"How can she possibly think we're together?" Amanda asked when Molly was out of earshot. "What in the world did you tell her?"

"Nothing to make her think _that_," Methos insisted. "Now forget about it and tell me what the hell you think you're up to."

Amanda batted her eyes and asked, "Up to? What could I possibly be up to? What makes you think I'm up to anything?"

"Three hundred bloody expensive, full-sized, plastic Fabergé Mauve Egg keepsakes," Methos told her. "Three hundred of them, necessitating one gullible volunteer, _moi_, to take the place of a salaried actor."

"For your information, Methos, I am the one who discovered the egg," Amanda whispered, and still Methos looked around nervously to see if anyone might have heard his real name. "I did the research and analyzed the clues to figure out where it was, and then through a persistent letter-writing campaign, convinced the current owner to get it out of the Swiss safety-deposit box where it was stored and put it on indefinite loan to the museum."

"It was you, wasn't it?" Methos grumbled.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You've had the egg, ever since it disappeared, haven't you?"

"Who, me? Nooooo."

Methos looked at her dubiously.

She just looked back.

"Liar!" he accused.

Her expression crumbled.

"Ok, so I may have crossed paths, _briefly_, with the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna sometime in the beginning of 1919," Amanda confessed. "Poor dear was living like a peasant in the Crimea waiting for her nephew, King George V, to rescue her and needed to sell the egg for funds to bankroll her household and endow her loyal servants after she left."

"So you _stole_ it from her?" Methos scowled in disbelief.

"No! You know I would never steal from someone in need," Amanda said. Then with an impish grin, she explained, "I brokered a deal with a collector I knew in the area and then stole it from him after the HMS _Marlborough _left the Black Sea with the Empress on board."

"So, you're really not planning to steal it?" Methos demanded in disbelief.

Amanda rolled her eyes. "Duh! Why would I steal something that's already mine?"

"For sport? For practice? For fun? And lest we forget, might I add, _yours_?"

"Well, possession is nine-tenths of the law," Amanda pouted. "Alexi was a pig, and I have a beautifully forged bill of sale."

Methos knew he was missing something, something as obvious as a brick to the head, but it just wouldn't hit him. _I can't imagine her needing the insurance payout,_ he thought. _She'd come to MacLeod or me for help if she was that strapped for cash. But what other reason is there? None that I can think of. None at all. _Knowing he would regret saying it sooner or later, he told Amanda, "I'm sorry I doubted you."

She gave him a friendly kiss on the temple and said, "You're forgiven."

"Thank you," Methos smiled, sort of wondering why he bothered because he was still convinced she was up to something, just not what he had initially suspected. "Now, when MacLeod shows up, do you think you could get him to hold your hand or something when you walk by the coach so Molly doesn't think you and I are together anymore?"

"Wellllll," Amanda hesitated, "I guess I could. I mean I _do_ owe you one."

"Ohhhh, no, no, no, this is soooo not one of the favours you owe me," Methos was quick to pounce. "In fact, forget I asked. I'll just explain it to her myself. And you owe me _two._"

"Fine, I'll do it anyway!" Amanda pouted.

"Fine!" Methos agreed.

"Great!"

"Perfect!"

"Good luck!" And with that, Amanda collected her things and left slamming the door behind her hard enough to rock the coach.

TBC

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	5. Kids These Days

**A/N: **If this story can be blamed on RoadrunnerGER, blame this chapter on KitElizaKing. She mentioned wanting to see Methos interacting with the kids, and after blinking at her review for about five minutes, I said, "Damn!" All but about half a page of this chapter was written after reading her comment on chapter three. The cherub and the geek in the last chapter are the result of her influence, too. So, she's to blame for the idea, but if the writing is crap, it's my fault.

_**Eggs in a Basket**_

_**Chapter Five  
><strong>__**Kids these Days**_

The afternoon started off worse than the morning, and went down hill from there for a couple of hours. Most of the children were some combination of hungry, sleepy, and cranky because they had missed their naps, their lunches, or both, or because their parents had just woken them from their naps moments before the photo op. Their first visitor, a boy of about four with brown hair and slightly crossed eyes, woke from sleeping in his stroller just long enough to climb into Methos's lap and pee on him. It didn't stain, but it was warm and wet and disgusting before quickly becoming cold and clammy and gross. He and Molly held the sleeping child between them for a couple of photos, and at the father's insistence, woke him up for the last pose.

Waking with a wet bottom, trapped between two maniacally grinning, human-adult-sized velveteen rabbits, in a claustrophobic room decorated with purple and yellow satin and about a thousand colourful eggs must have been the kid's worst nightmare. Molly nearly lost her costume head when he punched her, and Methos yelped in pain when the terrified tot kicked him in the shin on the way out of the carriage. They'd had to take an immediate break so that Methos could go off to the staff bathroom to rinse his suit and dry it under the hand dryer. When one pinched-face hag in a business suit had the nerve to comment on the time he took to clean himself up he was actually grateful that his suit had no place to conceal a sword, but he couldn't resist asking her if she would prefer that her child sat in someone else's urine on his suit.

When she looked shocked and offended and gasped, "I never . . ." he interrupted with "What? Thought? Well, perhaps you should . . ." and walked away.

Eventually an hour passed, and he and Molly took their two-o'clock break at about twenty after owing to the line that had formed while he rinsed his costume.

"Just so you know, Amanda and I aren't together," he said.

"Not yet, anyway," Molly said knowingly. "You already bicker like an old married couple."

"Really, I am very fond of her, but that bickering is more like sibling rivalry," Methos insisted. "She's with my best friend, and there's no way I'm treading on that dangerous ground. She and Duncan are both much too important to me as friends to risk messing it up for a stupid fling with someone who drives me nuts."

"So, you admit you've considered it?" Molly asked.

"Well, uh, yeah," Methos admitted reluctantly, knowing he was into the conversation too deep to deny it now. "She's very attractive and quite a lovely girl if you can just recognize that she really does have a good heart under all those bad habits."

Molly snorted a laugh. "If this is you trying to ask me out, you're doing a really bad job of it. If it's you trying to convince me you don't have a crush on your best friend's woman, you're doing even worse."

Methos felt himself go red. Why was he making such a fool of himself with this girl? Smirking and trying to salvage some dignity, he said, "Well, if you are so convinced that I have a crush on Amanda, why don't you ask me out and see if you can't cure me of it?"

Molly smirked back. "I just might."

Before the conversation could continue, a rap on the door and Carl, the photographer calling, "Break's over," interrupted them.

The second hour of the afternoon wasn't much better than the first. In his many lives, Methos had raised numerous children. Even as a Horseman, there had been one boy, Mario, who had shown particular skill in cooking and baking and Methos had done his best to encourage him to experiment with various herbs and techniques without catching the attention of Kronos. But in all of the families he had raised and abandoned before the neighbours noticed that the head of the household never aged, and in all of the neighbourhood children who had romped and played with his own kids, he had never, ever encountered so many whining, crying, cranky, tantrum-throwing brats.

The more he thought about it, the more Methos was convinced that modern conveniences made kids these days the miserable little, soul-sucking, financial and emotional parasites that they were. The advent of affordable electric lighting had meant more people sleeping less, and that included kids. Then there was radio followed by television with evening, night time, and late night programming of questionable quality and excessive advertising that provided round the clock entertainment. Children's programs had quickly become thirty minute advertisements for cheaply made plastic toys. Then there had come video games, followed by Gameboys and Walkmans that allowed kids to take their amusements with them wherever they went, home computer games, and most recently, the internet all of which led kids to spend more time indoors being sedentary, staring at pretty flashing lights, and thinking less and less. No wonder the children of the 20th Century were insufferable! They were all over-tired, over-stimulated, and under-exercised, which made them sleepy, cranky, and restless and led to them whining, crying, and throwing tantrums.

The last family Methos had raised had been as James Hargreaves (1) in the early years of the First Industrial Revolution. His trades as a weaver and a carpenter had kept him indoors and close to home, and with the help of a few cosmetic tricks he had learned from the Egyptians and a move to a distant town in the middle of his marriage, he had managed to stay in the same life for nearly forty years.

As James, he'd raised thirteen children with a hard-working wife whose heart simply held more love than she could give to just one man. Despite having to do without the finer things in life, even despite sometimes going to bed a little hungry, not one of them, from George, who had been born nearly a year before his parents' marriage, to little Alice, who was only eleven when James died, not one of them to his knowledge had ever bit, struck, or kicked their elders. They were not whiny, did not obsessively clutch their toys like talismans to ward off the evil demos of boredom and interpersonal communication, and did not sob inconsolably when those toys were taken away for a few moments so they could properly focus on another activity or interact attentively with another human being. By comparison to the modern children he had met lately, they were all bright, articulate, pleasant, polite, and sociable.

Methos had just about decided that if he were ever to raise another child, he would do it off the grid in an ashram, or a cave, or an igloo somewhere closer to the North Pole than the Arctic Circle, far, far away from the sinister influence of modern digital media and entertainment, when a lanky, dark-haired lad of about seventeen climbed into the carriage, crouching low to avoid banging his head on the door. He carried a guitar in a case and wore a white t-shirt bearing a photographic image of Delta Blues guitarist Robert Johnson that had been artistically manipulated to suggest devil horns in Johnson's shadow. (2)

"So I know I'm a little old for this," the kid said as he got his guitar out. "But in the past five years I have bought my mom potted tulips, daffodils, hyacinths, Easter lilies, and a box of chocolates so expensive she tried to make me take them back to the store for a refund. She hasn't had a professional portrait made of me since I was in the sixth grade, though, so I thought this would be a nice Easter."

Molly patted the boy on the back, and Methos gave him the thumbs up to indicate their approval. They posed for several shots with the boy, one formal pose with the three of them just looking at the camera, and other mock-candid shots with Methos and Molly pretending to play harmonica, acting as backup singers, and playing the adoring fans begging for autographs. It took less than half the time they usually spent with the smaller kids, so before the lad could put his guitar away, Methos caught him by the elbow and mimed playing the instrument.

"Well, yeah, I play," the kid said, barely managing not to tack on a '_duh_' at the end.

Methos put his hands on his hips and let his head loll to one side, hoping to convey the dramatic eye roll he was doing inside the costume.

"Oh! You're asking me to play!"

Methos nodded emphatically, but then Molly poked him lightly in the ribs and tapped her wrist as if worried about the time. He turned to her and made a pleading gesture with hands folded up under his chin. _Please? _Then he tapped his own wrist and held up three fingers. _Three minutes._

Molly threw up her hands. _Ok, you win._

Unexpectedly getting into his role, Methos hopped up and down excitedly and clapped his gloved hands together. _Yaaaay! _Then seeing the boy grinning at him, he froze. _Oh, crap!, I look bloody ridiculous, don't I?_

Turning to the kid Molly made a rolling motion with her hands. _Let's get this show on the road._ Then she poked Methos in the ribs again, pointed to her wrist and held up three fingers. _We're on the clock. Three minutes, and not a second more._

The boy took a moment to tune his guitar, and then launched into a cover of "Kindhearted Woman" that sounded like he had already lived long enough to know what the song was about. Methos glanced over beside him and saw Molly was rocking to the slow rhythmic beat, clearly enjoying herself.

"Someday, someday, Ooooo! I will shake your hand goodbye," the boy finished up. "I can't give anymore o'my lovin', 'cause I just ain't satisfied."

Molly applauded and Methos stood up to shake the lad's hand.

"I know I'm breaking character here, I'm not supposed to talk; but it won't spoil the illusion for you and they're not paying me so they can't really fire me," he began, speaking quickly and earnestly.

"That was bloody brilliant!" he said, letting his enthusiasm be heard in his voice. "After the day I've had so far, you've singlehandedly convinced me that there is hope for the future after all. Now, there's a blues bar down town called Joe's. You can find the address in the white pages. I know the owner. You're obviously underage, so you should probably show up before they start serving customers, maybe half ten, eleven o'clock. If the front is locked, go around the side door, or the back."

The lad nodded, looking flattered and confused, but listening intently.

"Joe can be a cranky old bastard first thing in the morning," Methos paused, smiled fondly inside the bunny suit, and amended, "Actually, most of the time, come to think of it, but it's all just an act and part of his charm. _Don't_ let him scare you off. Be persistent. Tell him Adam sent you and said he should listen."

"Wait!" the boy said, freezing in place. "You mean you're hooking me up with an audition?"

"_Yes_," Methos said emphatically. "I don't know what's involved in hiring a minor to play in a bar, but you're good enough to make it worth the trouble of finding out."

"Gee, thank you, mister, uhhh . . ."

"Adam, Adam Pierson, and you're welcome," Methos said, as he helped the stunned young man put his guitar in the case and turned him toward the door. "Now, we really do have to keep the line moving, but you, my boy have been the highlight of my day, uh, next to meeting Mrs. Rabbit here."

Methos looked back at Molly when he said that, and when she pretended to blush, he dared imagine she wasn't completely acting.

TBC

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(1) Apologies to the wife and heirs of **James Hargreaves** (1720 – 1778) for any aspersions I may have cast on the late Mrs. Hargreaves's character, but as Immortals are sterile I had to account for her children somehow. I did try to put the best face on it, and made Methos a very forgiving husband. To understand how Methos could accept as his own thirteen children resulting from the affairs of an unfaithful wife read **'Remembering them Alive'** the 8th instalment of **MarbleGlove's** series of **'Highlander Ficlets'** on Fanfiction(dot)net.

Hargreaves invented the spinning jenny which increased English production of cotton yarn by making it possible to simultaneously fill multiple spindles from a single spinning wheel. Hargreaves was a man of modest means who never got rich off his invention because the idea was stolen before it could be patented by **Sir Richard Arkwright** and applied to the water frame. Several of Hargreaves's daughters ended up living in penury houses by the time of his death.

Arkwright was an early entrepreneur, or, more accurately, a greedy bastard who invented the factory system for textile production in the England, mandatory overtime, child labour in factories, and company towns. According to Wikipedia: "There were two thirteen-hour shifts per day including an overlap. Bells rang at 5 am and 5 pm and the gates were shut precisely at 6 am and 6 pm. Anyone who was late not only could not work that day but lost an extra day's pay. Whole families were employed, with large numbers of children from the age of seven, although this was increased to ten by the time Richard handed the business over to his son. Arkwright encouraged weavers with large families to move to Cromford. He allowed them a week's holiday a year, but on condition that they could not leave the village."

(2) Legend has it **Robert Leroy Johnson** (May 8, 1911 – August 16, 1938) sold his soul to the devil to become a great blues musician. Check out the Wikipedia article for more details.


	6. Sumerian for Beginners

_**()()()**_

_**Eggs in a Basket**_

_**Chapter Six  
><strong>__**Sumerian for Beginners**_

After their musician left, the afternoon started to improve. Methos wasn't sure if it was because tired children had had their naps and hungry ones had been fed or if he had simply become inured to bawling babies, screaming toddlers, surly preteens, and interfering parents; but his mood rapidly improved throughout the afternoon.

On their three o'clock break, Molly said, "So, Adam, when you were bickering with your best friend's girl on whom you most emphatically _do_ _not_ have a crush, I heard you tell her that you're a linguist. Excuse my ignorance, but what exactly does a linguist do?"

"Oh, so many things," Methos replied, the tips of his ears inexplicably burning with embarrassment again. "Mostly I work with historians to translate and decipher ancient texts written in extinct languages, really dull stuff. But there are others who develop more natural computer languages, and ones who communicate with chimps, and ones who are teaching computers to respond to human voice commands."

"But you work with extinct languages?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Not to be immodest, but I'm really good at it," he said, "practically a rock star in my field, albeit a very geeky, relatively unknown rock star. I enjoy it, too. When a text starts to come together for me, when I start to decipher the story it's telling, I begin to feel like I actually lived through it myself." _And sometimes I really did._

"Once, I was working on an early version of the Epic of Gilgamesh and when I got to the part where he meets Utnapishtim, I swear I could _see_ it happen, with the words dancing over the scene like some special effect in a film. I felt like I could reach out and touch them, it was that real. It just sparks the imagination for me and I . . ."

Molly was sipping her sports drink and grinning at him.

"I've lost you, haven't I?"

She shrugged. "I've heard of the Epic of Gilgamesh, but I know nothing about the story," she confessed. "Unatpush . . . whatever is new to me."

"Utnapishtim, the Mesopotamian version of the Biblical Noah. When the gods regretted making the flood, they granted him immortality . . . and . . . I'm . . . doing it again, aren't I?"

Molly smiled and nodded. "Yeah, but it's ok. I love to see someone so excited about what they do. Your whole face lights up when you talk about it."

Methos shrugged and ducked his head, suddenly bashful. "What can I say? I love my work," he mumbled, and only as he said it, did he realize how true it was. Not only did his work translating ancient manuscripts often bring back fond memories, but it advanced modern knowledge of the past. The more contemporary people knew about the past, the more freedom he had to speak of his own life without having to explain how he knew or why he thought certain things. The freedom to talk about his own background in the very general context of history relieved the burden of some of his many secrets.

"Since I can't find a subtle way to change the subject, I want you to know I think that was a very sweet thing you did for the boy with the guitar," Molly said when it became clear that Methos wasn't going to babble on about Gilgamesh or linguistics again. "Do you really think he has a chance of getting a job at your friend's bar?"

"I'll make sure he does," Methos said. "Joe has a house band, but they don't play every night. He fills in with other acts, but most of them aren't as good as that kid."

"You must be a real blues fan to have such a strong opinion about his playing," Molly speculated.

Methos shrugged again. "I'm not so much a fan of a particular genre as I am of real talent in any genre," he said. "My tastes in music, art, and literature are all quite eclectic."

"So, does that mean you listen to rock and roll?"

"Are you kidding? Springsteen, Queen, The Who, what would life be without them? My car wouldn't need a radio!"

Molly laughed. "I'll take that as a yes. My roommate plays bass in a band that covers a lot of classic rock tunes. They have a gig at a local bar this weekend. Want to go?"

Methos grinned. "You're asking me out on a date?"

"Only to cure you of the crush you don't have on Amanda," Molly teased.

"Well, the answer is yes," Methos replied, and put the rabbit head back on before she could see him blush as he wondered whether the band played any slow songs they could dance to.

It was time to get back to work, and as Methos opened the door to let the next child into the carriage, he was assaulted by the sensation of multiple Immortal presences. Too late he realized he could just ignore them and never be recognized. Glancing up and around the children's room, he spotted Amanda, MacLeod, and Richie standing together by the entrance as if they had been waiting for him to reveal himself by recognizing them. He looked away as quickly as he could, pretending to be oblivious, hoping they hadn't noticed him noticing them, but he'd already seen Amanda's nod of self-satisfaction, Richie's look of shock, and finally, Duncan's appraising look morphing into glorious grin of delighted amusement that made the warmth flood into Methos's cheeks yet again. Trying to act as if he didn't care who saw him dressed as the Easter Bunny, the world's oldest man went about his business offering his great furry paw to help a little girl of about eight climb the steps into the carriage.

At least Molly proved to be a good distraction from his abject humiliation before the Highlander and his student. She was obviously curious about him, and he answered her questions smoothly with the same lies he'd been using for centuries. He was an only child, born overseas. His parents were dead. He was currently unattached. His family had moved around a lot while he was growing up, so he really didn't have anywhere he considered a hometown. Home was wherever he was living at the moment. His friends were his family and he could count them on the fingers of one hand, with a digit to spare for when he was ready to become attached again. He had a little money from a few wise investments, but he was by no means wealthy; and that was all right because his needs were few, a studio apartment, some comfortable furniture, a few pieces of art, his books, and beer money.

For every question he answered, Methos asked Molly something. She'd been born and raised in the suburbs of Seacouver. She'd have a couple years after finishing her teaching degree to pursue her acting career full time and was trying to decide between moving to Vancouver where she'd had work as an extra for the past five summers and knew she could get more; or moving to LA where the odds of finding work were considerably slimmer but if she got lucky and got the right job, she had a better chance of making a career of it. Right now, she was leaning toward trying her luck in LA because if it didn't pan out and she had to fall back on teaching, she could still always audition for bit parts and extra work in Vancouver in the summers.

Molly's parents had recently retired and bought an RV to travel the country. They spent most of their time now in Arizona because the warmer climate was better for her dad's arthritis. She had one sister, older, married, with two daughters and a son, raising her family in the same home where she and Molly had grown up. The brother-in-law owned a vintage clothing store in the retail district where Methos had, not unsurprisingly, bought a couple of his favourite sweaters and his beloved red jeans.

By their four o'clock break, the two of them had learned as much about each other as either of them was comfortable knowing, and Molly decided to change the subject. Out of nowhere, she asked Methos to teach her to say something in an extinct language.

"But not Latin," she insisted. "Or ancient Greek. Too many people have studied those."

"They are the foundations of a classical education," Methos agreed. "So, what extinct language would you like to speak?"

"Gosh, I don't know," Molly said. "I'm not sure I know the names of any extinct languages other than Latin and Greek. They're not like dinosaurs that every child learns about in school. Maybe something used in Old Testament times?"

"And what do you want to learn to say?" Methos asked. "I'm afraid common greetings like hello, how are you, what's up, and what's your name don't generally make it into the kinds of historical and literary texts I study."

"Oh, that's boring anyway," Molly told him with a naughty smirk. "Teach me how to curse. It's more fun and sounds the same in any language if you say it with conviction."

"A woman after my own heart!" Methos cheered. "You will be pleased to know that the ancients were very creative in their cursing. You won't find a 'kiss my arse' or an 'eff-you' until the Renaissance."

"And those guys thought they were so smart!" Molly joked.

"Ok, try this," Methos said, and then spat out an oddly melodic mix of sibilant and guttural syllables.

It took Molly a couple of tries before she got it right, and then she asked, "Ok, what did I just say?"

Grinning with delight to have such an eager student, and to hear a language that he had missed for so long being spoken by someone whose company he so enjoyed, he told her, "Well, it's Sumerian, the language of Ancient Mesopotamia, think modern Iraq from about Baghdad to the Persian Gulf, from the 31st to the 17th century BCE, or about the time the Druids started building Stonehenge to the beginning of Mayan civilization. And it means, 'May you become a boil on the buttocks of your household'."

Molly snorted, hiccoughed, and nearly spewed her mouthful of sports drink. "It does not!" she finally gasped when she could talk past the laughter and the coughing.

"I would never lie about something like that," Methos said sincerely. "But think about how brilliant it is! Before antibiotics, boils could be very dangerous. Having one on one's arse would also be quite painful. And the way it's worded, it affects not only the victim, causing him the anguish of bringing grief to his loved ones, but the entire family, causing the family to back away from the cursed individual and leaving him to face his adversity alone. It's really quite a vicious thing to say."

"You really do get into this stuff, don't you?" Molly said. "I don't know anyone else who would put that much thought or meaning into a single sentence."

"It's just my job," Methos told her modestly. "Try this one." This time the words were produced with a lot more phlegm and some rolled _r_s, and it took Molly four tries to get it right.

"It's Qatabanian," Methos said. "Spoken in and around the ancient city of Timna in what is now Yemen from about the time of the founding of Rome until about the time of Ptolemy's death." Smirking, he added, "And . . . you need to swallow your drink before I tell you what it means."

Giggling, Molly swallowed and said eagerly, "Tell me!"

"Thou art the motherless son of a syphilitic goat," Methos smirked.

Molly shrieked with laughter and stamped her feet. "I'll have to say that to my ex-boyfriend the next time he drunk-dials and starts crying about how much he misses me," she said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "It's so much more elegant than, 'Leave me alone you cheating bastard'."

"I told you the ancients were very creative," Methos reminded her. "Sadly, the honorable art of the creative insult is dead in the modern era of texting and tweets."

"Well, then, we'll just have to start a campaign to revive it," Molly said.

Carl the photographer knocked on the door to tell them their break was over. From inside his bunny head, Methos agreed with Molly and muttered something inappropriate about why Carl was so eager to get back into his dark little room alone. Molly snickered and said, "Pity his poor wife. He'll be exhausted by the time he gets home."

"I should think she would be relieved," Methos suggested.

Molly snorted a laugh, then the door swung open and a sugared-up five-year-old bounded in.

TBC

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	7. Conned Again

_**Eggs in a Basket**_

_**Chapter Seven  
><strong>__**Conned Again**_

On their five o'clock break, Amanda showed up and spirited Methos away before he and Molly could start a conversation. The coach had doors on either side of it, and the side away from the visitors opened into a vacant corner of the children's room with a door to a stairwell. As soon as they were on the landing, Amanda pushed the door shut behind them and began fumbling at the Velcro closure on the front of Methos's costume. It was put there so a man could relieve himself without having to remove the whole costume, but Amanda clearly had other ideas.

"Why, Amanda, I never knew you cared," Methos laughed, although he was fairly certain he knew what she was up to, and dreaded the thought.

"Oh, shut up, I need your help," she hissed at him.

"MacLeod holding out on you?" he teased.

He didn't hear what she said in reply, but he was pretty sure it included profanity. He pulled away and grabbed her wrists. The rabbit gloves didn't provide for much of a grip.

"Help with what?" he demanded.

"I need to hide something," she said, wriggling free and going for his fly again.

"No. Oh, no!" Methos objected, protecting his nether regions with both big, furry paws. "I knew this would happen! I bloody _knew _it!" he started to rant, just barely managing to keep his voice to a furious whisper. "I refuse to be your patsy Amanda, and I will _not_ help you smuggle stolen goods out of the museum. Whatever it is, you just put it back where you found it and leave me alone!"

Lower lip wobbling, Amanda said, "Please, I can expl . . ."

"No!" Methos insisted, the big, grinning bunny head bouncing and bobbing with every angry word. "You _lied_ to me, Amanda. I knew you were up to something, but fool that I am, I gave you the benefit of the doubt. I don't even know whether to say I am disappointed or not, because you did _exactly_ what I expected of you, although I was hoping you wouldn't. What I really feel is hurt because you lied to me, and angry that you think I will help you now."

"But I didn't . . . mean to . . . take it," she said, and began sobbing with soft little hiccoughs. "I didn't . . . mean . . . to take . . . it."

"Oh, bloody hell," Methos sighed inside the rabbit head. For centuries, he rode with the Horsemen. Death on a horse. The cries and screams of the wounded and dying hadn't bothered him then. Men, women, children, even infants. He'd slaughtered them indiscriminately like cattle, worse than cattle, vermin. Vermin cluttering up his landscape, and his heart was hard and he didn't feel a thing.

Then he had evolved, become a human being again, regrew a conscience that he had spent centuries losing. And now the mascara tracks running down the face of one very troublesome, very attractive little thief was turning his resolve to jelly. He would have offered her a handkerchief, but he didn't have one on him. So instead, he pulled off one of his rabbit paws and turned it inside out for her to dab at her eyes without staining. He didn't know what he would do if she blew her nose in it.

"Tell me . . ." _Shit. I don't really want to know._ But every little hiccoughing sob was like a needle in his chest and he knew he had to ask. ". . . what happened?" he finished with resignation.

She sniffled, wiped her eyes, and choked out, "Really?"

Methos sighed, rolled his eyes inside the rabbit head and said, "Really. And make it quick before I change my mind."

"I was walking past my boss's office, to check on the egg for the presentation," she began, "and I saw something on his desk. I just wanted a closer look, and then I just wanted to touch it. Before I knew what I was doing, I had picked it up and . . ."

"And pocketed it!" Methos interjected. "Bloody hell, Amanda! You really are hopeless, aren't you?" he raged.

Hearing his voice echoing in the stairwell, he forced himself to lower it.

"You're a lost cause if ever there was one!" he hissed angrily. "How bloody stupid of me to have trusted you!"

If not for the rabbit head, he would have been bashing his skull against the wall in frustration.

Amanda's lip started to wobble and her tears started to flow again, and even though Methos was certain he was right, he felt like a bastard.

"That's not what happened," she sniveled, "but you won't believe me anyway. Just forget I asked!"

She started to storm off, but he grabbed her by the wrist. "I'm sorry," he said softly, surprised that he at least halfway meant it. "I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions. What really happened?"

"I dropped it and it broke!" she cried, and showed him a rather gaudy-looking necklace in one hand and a large faceted diamond in the other. "Then I heard my boss's voice, and I wasn't supposed to be in there, so I gathered the pieces and hid in the closet."

"Oh, Amanda," Methos said sympathetically. _Why the hell do I feel sorry for her?_ "Why didn't you just fess up?" _I'm sure there's a reason._ "Surely if your boss was stupid enough to leave something like that lying out in an open office, he would let you off the hook as long as you didn't tell anyone about his mistake." _And why didn't the Machiavellian little imp think of that herself?_

"Well . . ."

"Well what?"

"It wasn't exaaaaaaactly lyyyyying out," she admitted.

"Where was it?" Methos demanded acidly.

"In a case."

"In a case?"

"Yes."

"A locked case?"

"Yeess."

"On his desk?"

"In a drawer."

"Also locked." Methos wasn't asking now. "And the office?"

"I picked the lock."

Methos cursed so fiercely in a dozen dead languages that Amanda cringed and covered her ears even though she didn't understand the half of what he was saying, and he did not stop until he ran out of breath.

"I'd seen it earlier in the day and only wanted it to myself for _a few minutes!_" she explained rapidly, the waterworks starting again. "I really like this job and don't want to lose it. And I don't want to disappoint Duncan. And I'm sorry I've disappointed you. And if I really _had_ wanted to steal it, don't you think I'd have come up with a better plan than an unwilling accomplice in a ridiculous _bunny suit_?"

Inside the rabbit head, Methos just blinked. _Of course she would, you bloody idiot!_ He realized, and felt horrible for doubting her . . . and stupid for falling for this ridiculous story . . . and certain that she was still lying to him, still playing him, still using him although he couldn't see how . . . and utterly shocked that a bloody great stupid arse like him ever could have kept his head for over 5,000 years.

"All right," he said in a low and dangerous voice. "I will help you, but now, Amanda, now, you owe me _forever_."

Methos made his way carefully back to the egg coach, grateful that the big feet of his costume made him clumsy and hid the awkward gait caused by the gemstones and heavy gold chain sliding and slithering around his bits inside his briefs. Even the stutter-step he made a few feet from the coach when the chain caught and pulled a few pubic hairs would look to the casual observer like he was simply tripping over his unfortunate rabbit feet.

Taking his seat in the coach, he immediately yelped and jumped to his feet again as a pointy gemstone poked him in the perineum.

"Everything all right?" Molly asked in concern.

"Yeah, fine," Methos panted. "Just a charley-horse from sitting so long." He kept his back to Molly, and used the massaging motion that one would use to ease a muscle spasm to adjust the necklace until it was in a safe position for sitting.

"Amanda's just a little nervous about the unveiling of the Mauve Egg and needed some encouraging words," he explained.

"From you? In that outfit?" Molly said quizzically.

"Well, they tell nervous speakers to imagine the audience naked," Methos replied, taking his seat more carefully this time and sighing in relief when nothing poked him or ripped out any hair. "Why not take encouragement from a giant blue Easter Bunny?"

"If it works, it works," Molly shrugged. "I'm just surprised that it does."

"I just told her relax, that Duncan would be there, and if she kept her eyes on him, everything would be ok," he said.

"Duncan," Molly said. "The best friend she's dating and whom you won't risk losing by propositioning her?"

"Right. Now, please stop teasing me about my supposed crush on Amanda because right now, I really am rather infatuated with you."

"Oh, um really?" Molly stammered, and this time Methos was sure he had her blushing inside her costume. "Why?"

"Because you're a lovely person, you've been kind to me and patient even though I clearly don't know what I'm doing here, I like freckles, and you're the first beautiful woman who has ever expressed an interest in what I do for a living," _At least in this life. _he told her quite frankly.

"Beautiful?"

"I think so," he told her. "So, this Friday night date you've invited me on, where shall I pick you up?"

"Hmmmm? Oh, the bar actually isn't that far from the museum," Molly said. "Why don't we meet here, plenty of parking, and we can walk to the bar. Say around seven? It will give us time to get there, have a drink, and talk a bit before their gig starts at eight."

"Perfect." Methos agreed.

A knock on the door and Carl's harsh voice telling them, "Break's over!" signaled the beginning of Methos's final hour of hell. He was a bit distracted with the necklace slithering around his groin as children climbed in and out of his lap, and a couple of times the only thing that prevented an inappropriate response was a deliberately summoned, vivid memory of Druscilla the Emasculator, wife of Petronius whom he had served as a slave named Remus in 68 A.D. During a brief lull while a mother was pfaffing about with her child's hair before allowing him to pose for pictures, he tried to shift position and barely stifled a yelp when the chain of the necklace ripped loose another tuft of pubic hair.

"Are you all right?" Molly asked quietly.

"Just another charley-horse," Methos whispered back. "Not used to sitting on my arse this much."

"You know, in that outfit, I can't really tell much about your looks except that you have a handsome face and lovely eyes," Molly flattered him. Then in a teasing tone, she asked, "Is it a nice arse?"

Methos couldn't help himself. He snorted a laugh at that. "I'll let you be the judge on Friday," he told her. "But I will admit I have been told it looks quite attractive in my red jeans."

"Red jeans?" Molly echoed dubiously.

Methos shrugged. "Maybe it takes a particularly fine arse to make them work," he preened smugly.

"Did someone tell you that, too?" Molly asked.

"As a matter of fact, yes," he said, still sounding smug.

"And they specifically said 'fine', not 'great'?"

"Well, I don't remember. What's the difference?"

"Come on, you said you're a linguist, or are you letting your ego cloud your interpretation? 'Fine arse' is a compliment. 'Great arse' could just mean it's awfully big."

Methos had to stifle both his laugh and his retort as the next child finally came in for his portrait. There were only three kids in line behind him, and the children's room had closed its doors for the day. Methos could see the light at the end of the tunnel, and while he hated to say goodbye to Molly, he couldn't wait to get out of his ridiculous suit, and he was even more eager to get rid of Amanda's bloody necklace.

TBC

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	8. Escape

_**Eggs in a Basket**_

_**Chapter Eight  
><strong>__**Escape**_

As soon as the last child was out the door, Carl, the photographer, collected his gear and left without so much as a goodbye. Methos made a face at him, and that made Molly giggle. He found he really liked the sound.

As she began stripping out of her costume and putting her street clothes on over the light shorts and tank top she had been wearing under the faux fur, Molly said, "So, Adam, I know we already have a date planned for Friday, but would it be terribly forward to invite you for a drink tonight?"

"I think it would," Methos told her, trying not to be caught looking at her slim, athletic body, "but I like that in a woman. It saves me from having to overcome my fear of rejection." Molly giggled again, and Methos grinned. Then he pouted, "Unfortunately, I don't have a change of clothes. Amanda told me this job would only take, and I quote, 'a couple of hours'. Stupid me, I believed her. So I got into costume at home, climbed in her car, and rode here with her, blissfully unaware of what a fool I'd been. I didn't know this was an all day thing until about two minutes before I met you. And now, I am stuck here, in this outfit, until the unveiling of the Mauve Egg and the reception are over."

Molly giggled again, and then suddenly, she was having a good, long laugh at Methos's expense. He grinned and chuckled slightly to see her so amused, but he couldn't exactly appreciate the humor of his situation as much as she did. At least when she had caught her breath again, Molly offered a sincere apology, which was more than Amanda had done all day.

"I'm so sorry, Adam," she said. "I know I shouldn't laugh, but I've known Amanda for a couple of years now, and I can just imagine how she suckered you into it, got you committed, and then sprang the trap on you. I can't believe you haven't killed her already."

Methos grinned. "Believe me, I have spent most of the day plotting against her," he said. "But really, how angry can I be? I've enjoyed the company, and I've got a date with a beautiful woman this Friday night. Part of me feels like I should thank her."

Molly blushed. Methos smiled. Molly pulled a pen out of her bag and said, "Give me your hand." She managed to find every ticklish spot on his palm as she wrote her name and number on his skin. "I'd offer you a ride home," she told him, "but I took the bus. Call me when you get home, and we can still go out for that drink."

Methos smiled again. "I'll do that," he promised. "Do you like blues music?"

Molly nodded.

"Then you'll love Joe's place. I'll call you around eight?"

Molly grinned. "Ok," she agreed, and blushing again, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before she slipped past him and out of the carriage.

Methos smiled and watched her walk all the way across the children's room, but as soon as the door closed behind her, his smile turned to a scowl. Putting the rabbit head back on so Amanda's jeweler would not see his face, he exited from the far side of the carriage and hurried as fast as his bunny feet would allow to the stairwell where he was supposed to meet Amanda's friend who would repair the necklace and return it to her.

"Klaus, I presume?" Methos said, entering the stairwell.

"Who are you?" Klaus looked exactly like Werner Klemperer, the guy who played Colonel Klink, the bumbling idiot commander on that 1960's American comedy show about a World War II German POW camp, except that instead of a monocle, he wore a jeweler's loupe.

"I'm the man you're waiting for," Methos replied from inside the costume as if that should be enough. "Clothes?"

Klaus handed him a duffel bag, and Methos rummaged inside. _Sweat pants, jacket, and oh, thank the gods, shoes._

"Keys?" he demanded.

"Necklace?"

"Keys first, or I walk right into that reception and turn you and Amanda in," Methos said.

"For what? You are in possession of the necklace," Klaus pointed out.

"I have spent the last eight hours wearing a rabbit suit and sitting inside a giant egg being photographed with children for no pay," Methos said. "I have an alibi for the theft, and I think it will be easy for me to argue that I was suckered into this and decided to wait for Amanda's accomplice to show up so I could be sure you both got what's coming to you. Now, give me the bloody keys!"

Glowering, Klaus handed him a set of car keys, and Methos grinned to find they were to Macleod's Thunderbird. He immediately decided to use it to pick up Molly for that drink.

"Where's it parked?" Methos asked.

"Amanda says you'll see it from the front entrance," Klaus told him. "Now the necklace, please?"

Relishing the opportunity to make the man squirm if only because he was in cahoots with Amanda, Methos opened the Velcro on the front of his costume and made a bit of a show pulling the broken necklace out. Seeing the look of disgust on Klaus's face, he said, "Relax. I showered this morning."

Klaus still put on gloves to handle the necklace. Methos decided not to be insulted. He probably didn't want to leave any fingerprints.

"Before you do anything else, I want to see you clean that," Methos insisted. "My prints are on it, and I want them gone. Same for my DNA."

Klaus blanched at that, and behind the rabbit's head, Methos grinned wickedly. He had only meant skin cells, maybe a stray pubic hair or fifty, considering how many the necklace must have ripped out in the last hour, but if Klaus wanted to assume other biological material, Methos wouldn't correct him. Methos watched intently as the jeweler got out a small jar of what appeared to be soapy water with a tray at the bottom and a brush inside it. Only when Klaus had submerged the necklace and scrubbed it all over did he finally go to the ground floor landing and begin to take his costume off.

Once he was dressed and ready to leave, he called up the stairs, "Word of advice, friend. Next time Amanda asks you to do her a favor, run, don't walk, the other way."

_**Epilogue**_

_Three Months Later_

When Methos heard the morning paper hit the floor outside his flat, he slipped carefully out of bed, pulled on his shorts, and padded over to the door. Opening the paper, he read the headline, and snarled, "Amanda!" Grabbing the phone, he stepped out into the hall and dialed a familiar number.

_You've reached Amanda. Leave a message._

"Amanda, darling, I know what you did," Methos growled into the phone. "I also know Macleod is out of town, so you should be home. Pick up the bloody phone!"

_"Adam? What do you mean, you know what I did?"_ Amanda gasped into the phone.

"Have you seen the paper yet today?"

_"Oh, Adam, you know I'm not much for current events."_

"Well, sometimes it pays to keep informed," Methos told her. "Let me read you the headline. _Museum Loses Giant Diamond. _There's a subtitle, too. _One Hundred Twenty-One Carat Zenith Replaced with Fake. No Suspects._ The story goes on to tell how the diamond was acquired three months ago, authenticated, and locked away in a safe in the gemstone collection manager's office until it was brought out yesterday to be prepared for display."

_"Wh-what makes you think I had anything t-to do with that?"_ Amanda demanded nervously.

"There is a quarter-page photograph of the necklace you stuffed into my underwear, Amanda," Methos told her.

_"Oh." _A pause. _"Are you very angry?"_

Deliberately making his voice as threatening a possible, he told her, "You have never seen me so angry, Amanda. Nobody has seen me this angry in a thousand years."

_"You sound . . . uh . . . pretty calm to me,"_ Amanda managed to stammer.

"Only because if I let myself start to shout, I will wake up the building and be arrested for disturbing the peace, Amanda," Methos explained. "Remember when I said you owe me forever?"

_"Y-yes,"_ she replied hesitantly.

"That's the only reason I'm calling you instead of coming after your head."

_"Methos, I can explain,"_ she began desperately. _"I owed Klaus. I had to . . ."_

"I don't want your explanation, Amanda," Methos told her. "You just be ready to start paying me back, and soon."

_"But, Methos . . ."_

"Amanda."

_"Y-yes?"_

"I mean it."

_"What do you want from me?"_

"I want you at my beck and call, every hour of the day, until I decide we're even," he said. "Disappoint me just once, and, well, I don't know what I'll do, but it will begin with telling Macleod."

_"Methos, you can't!"_ Amanda gasped.

"Don't let me down, and I won't," he promised, and ended the call before she could protest more. "In fact, you can start by delivering breakfast, no, make that brunch, for two, here to my flat, say, around ten-ish? Are you ready to take this down? I'm sure you can get everything at _Pas de Quois _over on Seventh Street. If you call ahead, they'll have it waiting for you. We'll start with a lovely little fruit and cheese plate with honeydew, cantaloupe, kiwi, strawberries, and blueberries, and a good Brie, Stilton, and Gouda, and by Gouda, I mean a young Noord-Hollandse, not some cheap American knockoff. We'll need coffee, of course, and fresh cream; and I think I'll make eggs in a basket for the main dish. I'll need a _really_ good bread, a dozen fresh eggs, some butter, a little fresh tarragon . . . Oh! And garlic butter, Parmigiano-Reggiano, sundried roma tomatoes, and fresh basil for an Italian version. Then I think some mini éclairs and cream puffs for dessert."

_"Mmmmm._ _Sounds yummy,"_ Amanda practically purred. _"Do you want champagne, too?"_

"Amanda, that's brilliant!" Methos agreed. "And get some interesting crackers and a jar of that lovely fig spread that MacLeod discovered to go with the fruit and cheese."

_"Sounds delicious,"_ Amanda sighed. _"I can hardly wait."_

"Oh, and maybe you should get some orange juice," Methos told her. "Molly might prefer mimosa to straight champagne."

_"Molly?"_

"Yes, she spent the night."

Silence.

"Oh, Amanda, darling, did you think I was inviting you?" Methos said, a phony chagrinned tone thick in his voice. "No, dear, I'm sorry, but you're just the delivery girl."

_"I hate you."_

Methos chuckled. "Well, if you like you could double the order and I could invite Joe over. I am sure he would love to hear the story behind the latest headlines for your chronicle."

_"I should just take your head,"_ Amanda snarled.

"It would probably make your life easier," Methos agreed. "But then who would you turn to for help when you know MacLeod is going to say no?"

Amanda grumbled a few obscenities at him, repeated the grocery order back to be sure she had it right, and suggested he do anatomically impossible things to himself when he expressed his appreciation for her helpfulness and wished her a good morning before hanging up.

Methos laughed evilly and blew a kiss at the phone. Then he went back into the apartment, put the phone back in its stand, laid the paper on the seat of his favorite chair, the enormous ancient wooden one his friends referred to as his throne, and padded back to bed. As he slipped between the covers, an arm slender wrapped around his chest and a long leg tangled itself with his.

"Missed you," Molly said.

"I was just getting the paper before the guy across the hall steals it," he told her. "Interesting headline. The museum was robbed. Now, it's still early. Let's go back to sleep."

"I'm not really sleepy," Molly said, moving against him in a way that told him what she wanted to do now that they were both awake.

"Actually, neither am I," Methos said, rolling over and chuckling darkly as he kissed her. He wasn't really angry with Amanda, either. In fact, he was quite grateful, but he wasn't going to tell her that, yet.

The End

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	9. A Recipe from the World's Oldest Foodie

_**()()()**_

**A/N:** Who can resist a recipe from the World's Oldest Foodie? Methos was quite kind to provide this recipe, especially considering the nature of the story that came with it. I am most grateful for his generosity, though I did choose to abbreviate the history lesson that came with it. This dish sometimes also called Toad in the Hole, but that wouldn't fit the story, now, would it?

_**()()()  
><strong>__**  
>Eggs in a Basket<br>**__**Methos's Recipe*  
><strong>__**  
>()()()<strong>_

_Pair this simple recipe with some fresh fruit and yogurt for a quick and easy balanced breakfast. Basic recipe makes two servings with approximately 180 calories, 13g carbohydrate, 10g fat, and 10g protein per serving._

**Equipment:**

~ Butter knife  
>~ Cookie or biscuit cutter or glass with 2.5-inch diameter or larger mouth<br>~ Medium frying pan or electric griddle  
>~ Spatula<p>

**Ingredients:**

~ Two slices whole wheat bread  
>~ Butter<br>~ Two large eggs  
>~ Salt and Pepper to taste<p>

**Directions:**

~ Use the cookie/biscuit cutter or glass to make a hole in the centre of each slice of bread. It's fun to make hearts for Valentines day, shamrocks for Saint Patrick's Day, egg or bunny shapes for Easter, Christmas trees for Christmas (or Arbour Day, what the heck), etc.  
>~ Butter both sides of the bread slices and the pieces you just cut out of them.<br>~ Heat the frying pan over medium heat or set the electric griddle to 350 F.  
>~ Place the buttered bread slices in the pan or griddle, put the pieces you cut out beside them to brown.<br>~ Drop a small piece of butter into the hole in the centre of each slide of bread to melt.  
>~ Break one egg into the hole in the centre of each bread slice.<br>~ Cook one to two minutes until egg white begins to turn opaque and bread slices are golden on the bottom.  
>~ Flip the bread slices and cut-out pieces and cook another minute or so until the other side is golden brown.<br>~ Season with salt and pepper. Serve hot. Use the cut-out pieces to dip into the egg yolk.  
>~ Enjoy.<p>

**Tips and variations:**

~ It is important to butter the bread directly for even browning. If you melt the butter in the pan, just the one side will brown, and only in the spots where it touched the melted butter and was able to soak it up. When you flip it over, all the butter will have been absorbed already and the second side won't brown properly at all.

~ Play with different flavours. Try using rye bread or pumpernickel. For a modern Italian twist that would do Apicius proud, spread the bread with garlic butter or brush with really good olive oil, top the finished product with fresh basil, sun-dried tomatoes, and a sprinkle of parmesan cheese. Go Florentine with sautéed spinach, fresh tomatoes, and a dash of Mornay sauce. For a sweet treat, try raisin bread or a thinly sliced quick bread like banana-nut or zucchini bread. Give it a bite with cayenne pepper, or mellow it out by skipping the pepper and using fresh minced tarragon instead. Try scrambling the egg and throwing in a couple tablespoons of diced sweet bell peppers, mushrooms, onions, and some finely chopped ham á la the classic Denver omelette.

~ If you've a flair for the dramatic, and are having several guests for brunch, try using an entire naan and a half-dozen or so eggs. Flipping the entire thing is an impressive trick easily accomplished with a large sauté pan and some practice (flip it sideways, not lengthwise), or you can cheat and just pick it up by the edges with your fingers and turn it very quickly. Serve on a platter, cut into portions after cooking

_***A note from the chef:  
><strong>__  
>This recipe is a far cry from the one young Mario used to serve the Horsemen all those years ago. Sadly, the art of cooking on heated rocks has been lost to the modern world, at least in the West, and baking one's own bread from scratch has been relegated to a special treat reserved for the holidays even in those households that bother to do it at all. Additionally, some of the herbs Mario used are now extinct or have been determined potentially toxic to humans, though why people are ok with gorging themselves on marijuana brownies but balk at the fruity-minty flavour of tansy because it contains a little thujone, camphor, and myrtenol is beyond me. I could see the worry if you were making a salad of it, but unless you are allergic, a quarter teaspoon isn't going to kill you. The suggestions I provide here are the best adaptations I could come up with that might be suitable to the modern palate and ingredients currently available. <em>

_Experiment to your heart's content, but don't blame me if you make yourself sick._

_~ Methos_


End file.
